


Careful

by Phoenixflames12



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-20 09:31:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16553252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenixflames12/pseuds/Phoenixflames12
Summary: Peter's point of view as he realises that George is dead





	Careful

 

‘He’s dead mate.’

 

The words freeze Peter to the spot, unable to tear his eyes away from the body that only a few hours ago had been the living, breathing, laughing body of his friend.

 

Dark, dull eyes gaze out of an oil streaked face, a flicker of what could be sympathy flaring in their hearts.

 

_George._

_George in his white striped shirt and green Argyll sweater, his mop of dark hair falling lightly over a pale, still face, looking for all the world as if he were asleep and at any moment was going to wake up and laugh, saying that it was just a practical joke._

_George, who should have been at home._

_George, whom he had spent hours messing around on the quayside with, throwing baited pots over the harbour wall for crabs._

_George, whom they should have left on dry land, a boy with his whole life ahead of him, now gone far too soon._

Men continue to file past him in silent order, quietly stepping round the body without being told. Their boots leave streaks of oil and sea water against the polished parquet floor, their limbs heavy and unwieldy in their sea-sodden uniforms.  

 

Above them, Peter can still hear his Dad call out orders in his soft, authorative way, slowly guiding each man to their place, safe in the depths of the Moonstone’s hold.

 

Can feel each creak and groan of the boat as she cuts through the water, the crackle of the sail pulling at the wind.  

 

Can hear the Scots pilot whom they had dragged out of his sunken plane mutter a desperate mantra through his teeth that he had not caught, eyes trained on the sky.

 

The Scots pilot who looks so like Tom that it makes Peter’s heart throb with a dull, agonised ache.

 

Peter cannot believe that they do not know.

 

‘Peter? Peter, where are you?’

 

His Dad’s voice comes from a long way off.

 

The weight of the door to the hold suddenly feels impossibly heavy under his hand as he holds the young soldiers gaze. It is an ageless look, one full of pain and understanding as he rests an oil streaked hand on George’s thin, still chest.

 

Overhead, the roar of a Spitfire streaks out overhead and some of the men, boys, Peter has to remind himself, some only a few years older than himself, shudder, pulling close into the dark corners of the hold.

 

‘One of ours! Peter, I need you to take the tiller!’

 

He nods, biting the inside of his cheek, willing the tears that are stabbing at the corners of his eyes to cease, for the lump in his throat to disappear.

 

He cannot break.

 

He cannot break because George would not have wanted it.

 

George and Tom, his elder brother and the light of his Dad’s life, who had flown Hurricanes and was now reduced to a photograph in uniform on the mantelpiece in the parlour, a collection of tarnished medals, sent post-humonously by his squadron leader and some tight  words in the Dispatches that spoke of unbroken courage and true heroism, would not have wanted it.

 

His Dad…

 

Some part of him, some childish part of him that should have been left on the quayside, wants nothing more than to turn away from the hold and scramble over the deck to the round house, pulling his Dad into a rough embrace.

 

He cannot do that.

 

Not now.

 

Not when so many lives depend on them getting the Moonstone out of this Hell and back to Blighty safely.

 

‘So be bloody careful with him!’

 

The words come out rougher than he means them to and the soldier nods, bending his head away and slowly, carefully shifting the body against the bed with its’ stack of lifejackets that George had helped stow away only hours before.

 

Peter cannot bear to look away, watching through unseeing eyes as the soldier nods to a comrade whom Peter cannot see clearly. Together, they drag out a thick, dark coat from under the seat and begins to wrap it round the body, their gestures slow and methodical.

 

Despite himself, Peter wonders how many times they have done this exact same thing before and then wishes he had not.

 

Instead he takes one last look at the shrouded body that had once been his friend and turns back towards the cloudy strewn sky, where his Dad is waiting with the tiller.

 

* * *

 

_**Fin** _

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to read and review! Comments, suggestions, questions, constructive criticism etc are like chocolates to my brain!
> 
> Much love and enjoy x


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